


debasement

by Anonymous



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Captivity, Dark Hashirama, Dubious Consent, Forced Wetting, Infidelity, M/M, Omorashi, Power Imbalance, Rape, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-16 12:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17549390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Hashirama doesn't stab Madara during their final fight at the Valley of the End. Instead, he seals his chakra and brings Madara back to a hostile Konoha, where Madara is forced to assume the position of a kept man in his household.





	1. Chapter 1

Madara shuddered in Hashirama’s arms. His entire body was taught and trembling, long wild hair damp with sweat.

“Please,” he whimpered, and it was such a strange sound to Hashirama’s ears, so quiet and meek and utterly at odds with the general loud brashness that made up most of Madara’s personality. He loved it, wished he was quiet and meek more often for thrill of arousal that ran down his spine to pool in his belly whenever he had Madara at his mercy like this.

Hashirama hummed softly as he pretended to think it over, pressing his nose behind the shell of Madara’s ear to lay a kiss against his neck, ignored the way Madara shivered and twitched as if to lean away from him before restraining himself. “No,” the Senju said.

The Uchiha sucked in a sharp breath, uttered a wordless sort of keening sound on the exhale. “I can’t – _I can’t_ ,” he whined, between clenched teeth.

“You can, my beloved,” Hashirama purred. He was sitting on the floor behind Madara, his back pressed against the wall with Madara’s back plastered to his front, his chin hooked over Madara’s shoulder, resting upon his collarbone. “You can,” he murmured, again. “You’re doing so well for me, Madara.”

Madara took in a shuddering breath, squirmed, and reached for his cock. Hashirama, whose arms had been looped around his lover’s torso loosely as he played with Madara’s nipples, pinched him in punishment and grabbed him by the wrists. Madara tried to tug one arm free, and Hashirama squeezed Madara’s wrist in warning, felt bones creak beneath his fingers and knew that he was leaving behind bruises that would be so dark and pretty on Madara’s pale skin tomorrow. He pulled Madara’s hands back to rest upon his thighs, then let go, fingers ghosting across skin down Madara’s chest to his belly, so gentle now he almost wasn’t touching at all.

Madara whined when Hashirama’s palm passed over the taut bulge in his lower abdomen where his overfull bladder was straining for release. “Don’t,” Madara hissed, voice high and strangled.

Hashirama’s erection throbbed, but he ignored it, resting one hand on his desperate lover’s hip and dropped the other further down to run his fingers along the underside of Madara’s cock, which was half-hard, the tip wet with something not viscous enough to be precum. Hashirama rubbed the wetness on his fingers together, then brought his hand to his face to sniff. It was a dilute scent, but there – the musky smell of urine.

It wouldn’t be long before the Uchiha lost control.

Hashirama smiled to himself, humming softly. “It’s okay. You’re doing so well. You can let go.”

Madara didn’t reply in words, just groaned something that may have been a curse if it had been coherent.

The thing was, Madara _couldn’t_ voluntarily let go, not even it he tried most of the time. Not with someone behind him, not even if it was just Hashirama sitting at his back. Eventually, his body would lose its fight against itself, and his bladder would release whether he wanted it to or not – there was no fighting the inevitability of nature.

Of all the ways Hashirama had of forcing Madara give up every last scrap of his autonomy for a short time, this was perhaps his favourite. There were no bonds or seals involved. Just time and patience.

Today, it had started when they shared tea about an hour before they broke for lunch. Madara had been tense and shouty all morning, more than usual. Hashirama met his dearest’s eye, not easy since Madara rarely looked at him anymore, and given him a significant look when he handed him his cup, after which Madara had grumbled under his breath but acquiesced to Hashirama silent demand, refraining from excusing himself to relieve himself for the rest of the day. Afterwards, Hashirama had plied Madara with something to drink every other hour, in spite of his glowers and wordless snarls, until everyone else had left the office except for Tobirama, who always stayed late. By the time Hashirama left the Hokage Tower at his old friend’s side, Madara had been restless and jittery, but too distracted to snap and snarl.

Now, he was desperate, breathing harshly through clenched teeth, tremors wracking his body, limbs twitching against his will.

Hashirama thought he was beautiful like this, his iron control stripped away and along with it the prickly rage he used to keep everyone at arm’s length.

“Please, just let me—” Madara began to beg, then cut himself off with a curse.

“No touching, Madara. Those are the rules.” Hashirama’s hand drifted back to rest lightly on Madara’s lower abdomen, over his bladder. He deliberated. Then offered: “Do you want me to help?”

Madara didn’t reply. Just breathed shakily. Tipped his head back, and shook it faintly. His eyes were squeezed closed, fists balled on his thighs, toes curled.

Hashirama began to rub circles over his belly, pressing just the faintest bit harder each time he dragged his fingers past Madara’s pubic bone. Madara whined, high-pitched and almost canine, whimpering soft denials, though it was impossible for Hashirama to tell if he was speaking to himself or not. The Senju was looking down the muscular planes of Madara’s body when his lover inhaled sharply and froze, a trickle of urine leaking out to darken the forest green towel they were sitting on.

Madara’s next breath was more of a sob.

“So good for me,” Hashirama purred. “That’s it, Madara. Let go.”

And, without further urging, Hashirama was witness to the moment when the Uchiha let the last shred of his self-control slip, piss spurting from the slit in his cock in several uneven bursts before settling into a steady stream. Madara slumped bonelessly against Hashirama as his body lost the fight, letting out a shaky sigh. With his other hand, the hand that wasn’t gently massaging Madara’s belly, Hashirama petted his hair, brushing the dark sweat-damp strands away from his eyes, which were half-closed and – from what Hashirama could see, looking at his old friend’s face from the side – unfocused, staring into the middle distance as tears streaked down his cheeks.

Hashirama breathed deeply the warm, pungent odours of Madara’s sweat and piss, tucked his hair behind his ear, and reached out to pick up the spare towel folded at their side. With a soft touch he urged Madara to shift so he could place the new towel under his stream, the green towel soaked through and glistening in the lamplight.

The Uchiha’s breath hitched, and he trembled as he appeared to make an attempt to regain control of his bladder without touching himself.

“No, beloved.” Hashirama reprimanded him softly, and pressed harder against his bladder with the flat of his hand. Madara’s chest heaved as he sobbed, urine hissing loudly as the stream that had been trickling to a stop renewed, flowing harder than it had been before. Hashirama watched for a moment, feeling the pleasant ache in his cock, pressed up against Madara’s backside, hot and slick with sweat as they both were, which seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart.

He lifted his hand from his old friend’s belly, and Madara shivered and tensed but his bladder had been badly overstrained. Hashirama would be very surprised if he managed to stop the flow before he was truly empty, not after failing to hold twice now, so he reached for the little pot of faintly sweet-smelling lubricant he had set aside earlier, lathering his fingers and then reaching around his friend to take his dribbling cock in his hand.

His own erection went ignored as he began to stroke Madara to full attention. Hot piss spattered his hand and wrist. Madara made a noise of discontent. He was a bit like the Uchiha Clan’s ninneko – he didn’t like getting wet and dirty, either. Hashirama shushed him.

“You’re gorgeous like this, beloved,” Hashirama murmured. “Naked. Can’t even hold your piss, like a little child. Sitting in your own mess. _Pathetic_. Perfect. Just the way a failure like you _should_ be, don’t you think?”

Silence, but for his old friend’s harsh breathing and the sound of the last trickle of hot pee as it hit the saturated towels Madara and Hashirama were sitting upon. Hashirama pinched the tip of his penis, and Madara twitched.

“Don’t you think, beloved?” he asked again.

“Yes,” Madara agreed, at last.

“You’re useless,” Hashirama told him, indulgently.

Madara nodded. “Yes,” he said again.

“At my mercy,” Hashirama said, finding a rhythm as he pumped Madara’s cock, one that seemed to suit Madara well enough, from the way his hips stuttered and precum began to bead at his tip. “I could have killed you, but I didn’t. Wasn’t I kind, bringing a pathetic, traitorous failure like you back here and giving you a purpose, beloved?”

Sometimes, Hashirama hurt his own heart, saying these things to the oldest and dearest of his friends. They were so very mean… But they were what Madara needed to hear, so he said them anyway.

He knew Madara wasn’t far away, now, from the way he had to gasp half a dozen times before he mustered the ability to utter the word: “Yes.”

“Aren’t I kind, beloved? Aren’t I such a good friend, taking you in when even your clan doesn’t want you anymore?”

A sniffle and a whimper. Hashirama watched the beading precum leaked down the shaft of Madara’s cock until it hit Hashirama’s fist, where it joined the lube on the next upward stroke.

“Ah, but you’re so beautiful like this, beloved,” Hashirama murmured. “Such a good boy for me, doing what I say, and with only a little bit of that naughty resistance, which I know you can’t help. It’s in your nature, isn’t it? It’s going to take so much longer to train you out of that. But good boys deserve rewards, don’t they? And you have been good.”

Madara whimpered again, tensing in anticipation. That wasn’t allowed, the anticipation of what Hashirama would do next, that sort of thing was what got him into trouble in the first place – making predictions of the future not based in reality, and then acting rashly based upon them. Hashirama made him wait, eking out the seconds by slowing his ministrations almost to a stop.

Once, Madara might have growled at him. Now, he grabbed Hashirama’s wrist in both his hands, but exerted no pressure. Just held on, like Hashirama was the only thing keeping him present in the room.

At last, he relaxed again, slumping, trembling, against Hashirama’s chest.

Hashirama tightened his grip, dragging his hand up the length of Madara’s cock, then swiped his thumb over the leaking head – and then took his hand away altogether. Madara let out a frustrated grunt. “Since you’ve been so good for me,” Hashirama purred. “I’ve decided you’re allowed to use my dick. Get up and get yourself ready.”

Madara grumbled something that might’ve been unsavoury under his breath, which Hashirama magnanimously elected to ignore, instead helping him up onto his knees on the sodden, squishing towels and passing him the little jar of sweet-smelling lube. The Uchiha held it in his hand for a moment, eyes dark, expression unreadable, as the hair that cascaded down his back tickled Hashirama’s chest with every breath. Then his friend closed those dark, unfathomable eyes, shuffling forward on his knees a short way, because he knew that Hashirama liked to watch – Hashirama had taught him that early on – and leant forward over his knees, reaching around himself with slicked-up fingers to work his ass open.

Hashirama, now no longer pressed right up against him, and with both hands free, began to stroke his own cock idly, watching the way Madara slipped his index finger past the rim of muscle of his sphincter, the shift of the tendons in his hand and wrist as he curled that finger inside himself before adding his middle finger, too.

Not longer after, Madara withdrew his first two fingers and slipped them back in with his ring finger as well. Peremptorily thrusting them in and out of his hole a few times, he glanced over his shoulder, peering through long strands of his hair at Hashirama.

How disappointing. He was rushing. Hashirama didn’t like it when he rushed, but the Senju supposed he would rush if promised a reward, too.

“Go on, then,” he told Madara, shifting into a more comfortable position sitting cross-legged, most of his weight against the wall behind him.

Madara climbed onto his lap, knees on the floor to either side of Hashirama’s thighs, and lowered himself until he felt Hashirama’s erection press against one of his damp and slightly stick ass cheeks. Bracing himself against one of Hashirama’s shoulders with one hand, he guided himself onto that cock with the other. Hashirama let out a breathy sigh at the feeling of tight heat that encased his dick as he was sheathed fully in Madara’s hole. When Madara had found his balance and settled, he rolled his hips experimentally, enjoying the way Madara hole contracted and shifted around him.

His old friend made a soft, choked-off noise, a sound he’d tried to swallow. He would not meet Hashirama’s gaze, head tipped down, forehead resting upon Hashirama’s collarbone.

“Please,” he whimpered.

“Please what, Madara?”

“Please let me finish.”

Hashirama pretended to think about it. A tremor ran through Madara’s limbs, from the arms he’d looped around Hashirama’s shoulders, down his spine, through his legs, pressed against Hashirama’s thighs. Peering between the curtain of his hair that fell in front of his face, Hashirama could see him biting his lip.

Hashirama smiled. “I already told you yes, beloved. This is your reward.” He reached out, touched Madara’s chin to tilt his head back to look into his eyes, but Madara hissed, turning his face sideways and down. Oh, well. That was his choice, then.

Hashirama found Madara’s hips, splaying his fingers over Madara’s ass cheeks, as he rolled his own hips in a slow motion, leisurely fucking into him.

Madara snarled, a wordless noise of frustration. “Faster,” he demanded.

“Ah,” Hashirama chided him. “Have you forgotten yourself already? You aren’t in charge here, I am. And I’m giving you your reward, but at my own pace. Why is it that you aren’t in charge, beloved? Will you tell me?”

Madara said nothing, his mouth pressed firmly into his own shoulder.

“Tell me, Madara.” Hashirama stilled, serious now, fingers tensing and curling on Madara’s hips in a way that would leave little red crescent-marks from his nails on his lover’s pale skin. Tomorrow there would be bruises, with the crescents darkened almost to black.

“Because I’m stupid,” Madara spat. “And rash and arrogant and can’t be trusted to decide things for myself because I fuck up everything I touch.”

“Precisely. You’re capable of regurgitating rote learning, at least, though it remains to be seen whether you believe it… I did say I would reward you, though, and I’m not going to take that away even though you’re trying my patience, Madara. Do you still want your reward? Or are you going to be contrary?”

There was a long moment of silence. “Please,” Madara murmured, after a while. “Can I have my reward?”

“Yes.”

Hashirama began to move again, and Madara moved with him, pushing himself down to meet each thrust of Hashirama’s hips. The Senju hummed approvingly, dropping his head to nose his way through the hair at the junction of Madara’s shoulder and neck. When he felt damp, hot skin beneath his lips he licked a stripe up Madara’s neck, kissed back down it, and then laid his teeth over the spot where he felt the flutter of Madara’s pulse just below his jaw.

Madara inhaled sharply as Hashirama began to suck and nibble at the skin there, blunt fingernails scraping across Hashirama’s back before he fisted two handfuls of his hair, and held on. He didn’t pull, Madara wasn’t allowed to pull his hair, that was the sort of thing that triggered a threat response in Hashirama, and neither of them enjoyed the results of that.

“Please,” Madara keened.

Hashirama gave an inquisitive hum as he licked further down Madara’s neck and began to nibble out across his collarbone.

“Please,” Madara said again. “Hashirama, can I…?”

Hashirama decided he had drawn his reward out long enough, and he removed one hand from where it rested on Madara’s hip to take his weeping erection in his hand, beginning to pump it firmly. “You can,” he purred. “Come now, beloved. Come for me.”

The response was immediate. Madara let out a strangled sort of cry, entire body tensing, hole fluttering around Hashirama’s cock in a very pleasant way. His cum spurted onto Hashirama’s chest, once, twice, three times, before drooling out and leaking onto Hashirama’s thumb and dripping down onto his belly. Exhausted, Madara slumped against Hashirama, who continued to thrust into his ass, chasing his own end.

It wasn’t long before Madara began to whimper and squirm with the overstimulation.

Hashirama hushed him, ran his hands up and down the Uchiha’s back – over the stark black seal seared into his skin, the one that disrupted his chakra network, preventing him from so much as walking up a wall, let alone bringing his Sharingan to bear, or focusing enough for a lethal ninjutsu.

He was getting close when Madara gasped and shivered, and something hot and wet spilled onto Hashirama’s stomach. Head thrumming with his own heartbeat, pleasure coiling in his belly and the base of his spine, Hashirama peered down between their bodies to find Madara had released his bladder and was dribbling piss onto him. It was such an unexpected sight – and yet not, because Madara had had so much to drink it would be filtering through him after this for hours to come – that Hashirama found his orgasm hitting him without warning.

He came with a startled yelp, hips stuttering.

“Sorry,” Madara muttered, as Hashirama sagged against the wall with a contented sigh.

“It’s fine, beloved,” Hashirama said.

Madara immediately tensed, began to object. “I’m supposed to obey—” His voice cracked. He still wouldn’t look Hashirama in the eye. That was alright. Since he lost the Sharingan he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes anymore.

“No, no, Madara, I promise, it’s okay.” Hashirama pulled him closer, began to stroke his sweaty hair. “There was nothing to obey, I didn’t ask you to do anything. You’re very tired, aren’t you?”

“…Yes.” It was muffled a little by Hashirama’s chest.

“You couldn’t help it, could you, you poor thing? Let’s rest a little while, then, and then I’ll help you get cleaned up.”

He and Madara scrubbed themselves down and took turns in the bath, then ate a light dinner. While Hashirama cleaned up the mess they had made, Madara slunk away silently. Hashirama found him in their bedroom, curled up on the futon in the dark. They normally stayed up later into the evening, and Madara wasn’t asleep, although his eyes were closed. He could tell by the cadence of his old friend’s breath that he was not in a state of repose.

Hashirama sighed and left him alone, retreating to his office. He had a lot of paperwork.


	2. Chapter 2

The valley around them had been devastated – again. The second time they fought here had been just as cataclysmic, if not more so, than the first, their clash raging on through the night until they were both on the verge of chakra exhaustion. Hashirama’s armour was dented and cracked, his left spaulder torn away along with the sleeve of his undershirt. He was burned from his shoulder to his knuckles, hand hanging limply at his side.

Standing across the river from him, Madara fought to catch his breath, his lungs aching, bruised ribs and spine protesting with every gasp.

It was clear that within the next few minutes, one of them would die. Madara had no intention of letting the impending casualty of their most recent clash be himself. He would not stand at this river and lose to Hashirama again. He swallowed around his parched and raw throat, lips blistered and face hot from repeated katon jutsus. “This time, you won’t reach the other side,” he called to the man who had once been his friend and but who he now despised. Hashirama’s deliberate ignorance and persistent naivete were sickening to bear witness to. There were times Madara went weeks wondering how he could possibly have tolerated such a thorn in his side for so long.

He should have excised this nuisance a long time ago.

Madara no longer had the energy to maintain the Sharingan. His vision was still sharp, however, even in the darkness of the overcast night, and he thought in the fraction of a second before he raised both kama and gunbai and leapt forward he saw Hashirama’s expression become hard and flat with distaste.

But that wasn’t right, because Hashirama was a childish fool who didn’t have it in his heart to hate or despair.

Not like Madara.

They met with the ringing of steel above the centre of the river, trading rapid but glancing blows, and then momentum carried them on.

Madara landed on his feet.

Hashirama collapsed face-first into the icy water, katana clattering onto the stones in the shallows.

Madara turned, looking down at him, as he struggled to his knees, coughing up river water. “I am the one still standing, unlike last time,” he observed. If he felt the faintest hint of remorse at seeing the man who was once his closest friend struck down, he quashed it without a second thought.

He watched Hashirama’s elbow tremble under his own weight, rain dripping down into the flowing river.

“I just – I just want to protect the dream I finally realized,” Hashirama told the river stones. In the darkness, the blood flowing from the wound in his side was almost invisible, but Madara saw it as it a black stain in the water being swept downstream. “I don’t – I don’t want—”

Madara was in no mood to entertain Hashirama’s crude attempts to manipulate his emotions. With false levity that belied his exhaustion, he said: “You seem unhappy, Hashirama. You aren’t going to perk back up this time like nothing was never the matter, eh?”

There was no warning. Not when he was too tired to activate his Sharingan. Not in the dark, with rain water in his eyes. Not with the crash of the waterfall so near, the heady thump of his heart, and his own sawing breath in his ears eclipsing almost all other sounds. Not when he was so exhausted he felt dizzy with the need to sit down and close his eyes, just for a minute.

One moment, Hashirama was kneeling in the river before him.

The next, a searing pain flared across his back like liquid fire, stealing his breath. It started from a point just off-centre from his backbone and spread outwards, crawling up over his shoulder blades, down almost as far as his hips. It was a pain unlike anything he’d quite felt before – so exquisitely agonising he couldn’t even scream.

He made a sort of a choking gurgling around his seizing diaphragm at about the same time as he became aware of a presence behind hime.

Hashirama.

He’d substituted himself with a wood clone, which now lay on its side in the river, frozen half-collapsed.

Madara cursed himself. He couldn’t believe he let that _fool_ get behind him.

They stood like that for several long seconds.

As he began to acclimatise to the searing agony in his back, Madara became aware of the weight of Hashirama’s hand, splayed across his spine at the very centre of the radiating pain.

His _hand_?

What technique could Hashirama possibly have used?

The Senju interrupted his scattered thoughts, speaking in a rough voice. “I will protect our village, Madara. No matter what. You have lost your way, but I believe that protecting the village will lead to the protection of everyone – the people, the children. The shinobi. I will protect our village from everyone who would seek to betray it. There is no sacrifice I would consider too great, not even if it were my own child. My own sibling. My own friend. Not even you, Madara.”

The pain had spread through his chest, now, and had crawling up the back of his neck to lance through his skull, taking root in his eyes. Madara was hardly aware of dropping his gunbai or kama as he lost the sensation in his hands, or of his knees giving way beneath him. His vision was spotting black around the edges.

And even as this happened, he wondered, distantly, who this monster was that had replaced the man he once called friend, who would now readily end the lives of his nearest and dearest in the name of the greater good. There were lines Madara had never considered crossing, for they were unthinkable, yet here Hashirama was, admitting that he would kill Tobirama if he had to.

Madara could never have harmed Izuna.

“You’ve changed, Hashirama,” he choked.

“No,” Hashirama replied, looming over him in a way he could feel even though his vision was clouded over completely. “I was always like this. I’m surprised that only now you choose to see it.”

Were he not slipping into unconsciousness, Madara might have retorted with something witty about not being able to see at all. The last thing he felt before sound and sensation faded out the same way his eyesight had was cool vines crawling around his wrists to tighten painfully, fixing his arms together, and his heart lurched in his chest because if Hashirama had struck him a fatal blow then why would he bother with restraints?

His recollection of the events that followed were scattered and hazy.

There was the pain that came and went, the cramping of overused muscles, the protest of his ribs as he struggled to breathe, a burning pain that spread through his body like acid was flowing through his blood. An ache that settled behind his eyes like a hot stone, gradually expanding until his head felt like it would explode.

There was his stomach twisting on itself. Coughing up hot bile but being unable to roll onto his side and spit it out – and then someone using what felt an awful lot like their foot to roughly kick him over, and then he was vomiting into his own hair.

There was a persistent feeling of cold and damp in the beginning, and then the crackle and heat of a nearby fire.

At one point, someone dragged him off the stony ground by his hair, snarled in disgust, and dropped him again. He was shoved onto his stomach, his obi ripped off, and the armoured silk of his robe cut with a kunai with a sharp sound that seemed distant to his ears. Cold fingers touched his skin, and it wasn’t until he heard the dulcet tones Senju Tobirama’s voice that Madara came back to himself with a panicked start.

He lay still, eyes closed, breathing as even as he could with the way his bruised ribs were protesting, pretending unconsciousness as he struggled against his own hazy mind to take stock of his situation.

“Well, even though you went against my recommendation not to kill the traitorous dog, the seal appears to be stable,” the loathsome Senju demon said. Madara was having some trouble parsing language, so there was a delay of several seconds between when Tobirama spoke and when he finally worked out what had been said. “What are you going to do, now, anija? Why spare him? Stringing out his death is unnecessarily cruel, and you can’t bring him back to Konoha.”

Madara’s skin prickled as he broke into a cold sweat, his stomach rolling and his heart lurching into his throat. He wouldn’t go back to Konoha. He couldn’t. He would die before he ever stepped foot in that accursed lie of a village again, surrounded by the walking corpses of the damned and the mindless puppets of the so-called Hokage. Who he had failed to kill. Again. Dooming them all, and himself.

He missed Hashirama’s reply, the cadence of his voice washing over deaf ears as Madara tried and failed to squash the panic welling in his chest.

“—Your choice, of course, anija. I’ll be back in five days, if you have not returned by then yourself,” Tobirama was saying, when Madara managed to claw his focus back. “Your prisoner is awake, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Very well. The whole village is awaiting your arrival anxiously,” and the Senju demon was gone, flickering away with the same technique he had used to kill Izuna.

Before Madara could lose himself to his own circling thoughts, Hashirama spoke. “Sit up, Madara. I would speak with you.”

Madara assessed his chakra levels, and decided that he had enough for Amaterasu. It would kill him as well, but that was fine. He was immobilised, and too weak to break his bonds. Even if he managed to kill Hashirama and survive, he would die here anyway, probably within a scant handful of days. He was already dehydrated, could feel it in the parchedness of his mouth and the sluggishness of his thoughts. Not even a shinobi could last long without water.

He opened his eyes a slit and turned his head towards Hashirama’s voice, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the crusting stinking mess in his hair.

The Senju was sitting on the other side of the low fire. He had removed his cracked and broken armour. It was arranged neatly on the ground beside his katana. And Tobirama must have brought him a change of clothes, because he was wearing now his usual outfit of a short-sleeved, kimono, a burnt orange today, tucked into pinstriped hakama with a pale haori. His left hand was bandaged. Presumably those bandages extended all the way up to his shoulder.

He looked tired, and pensive, sitting on the other side of the shallow cave that appeared to have been scraped out of the cliff face with a doton jutsu, sitting with his elbows on his knees, his chin resting upon his interlocked fingers.

Madara attempted to activate his Sharingan and couldn’t.

He tried again, but his chakra would not cooperate.

It was like trying to sieve oil from the surface of water using only his fingers. He _couldn’t_ do it.

Furious, he rolled onto his back and attempted to sit up, his torn robe slipping down his shoulders to pool at his elbows. He felt exposed, feverish, the night air bitter against his overheated skin, and he couldn’t even tug the fabric back up in an attempt to cover himself because his hands were bound. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him, and he spent several seconds sitting there with his head between his knees, trying not to pass out, before he lifted his head to regard Hashirama with a scowl. “What have you done to me?” he snarled, struggling against the restraints on his wrists and hands futilely anyway.

Hashirama smiled. It was not a nice smile. It was small, quite unlike the Hokage’s usual grins, and did not meet his eyes, and even though Hashirama was not exuding any Killing Intent, Madara found himself glaring at the face of someone who registered in his mind not as a blithering fool, but as a genuine threat.

“Tell me, Madara,” he said. “If one of the Uchiha had a particularly difficult tom cat, one that was always roaming and getting into fights when it shouldn’t, what would be done to that cat?”

Madara struggled with the apparent non sequitur. “One of the med nins would neuter it,” he said, at length.

“Not too long ago, Tobirama came up with a rather ingenious seal. You place it on someone, and it disrupts the flow of their chakra so severely they can’t use it at all. I’m told it’s quite painful, until the body adjusts. Unfortunately, Tobi could never work out how to undo the seal’s effects, not even with Mito’s assistance. They killed nine of our prisoners attempting to figure it out, before I put a stop to that little piece of experimental juinjutsu.” Hashirama paused, meeting Madara’s eyes without fear, or even a hint of wariness.

Madara shifted his gaze to his hands, to the wooden shackles sitting snug against the skin of his wrists, little vines curling around each of his fingers until they were locked together. Bound like this, he couldn’t use ninjutsu even if there wasn’t something weird going on with his chakra. Nor could he pick anything up. Even if Hashirama’s blade was sitting just over there, he had no means of wielding it unless he used his teeth. Unlike a kunai, it was too large and unwieldly for that.

There was another tight wooden shackle around his left ankle, anchoring him to the wall of the cave with another thick, gnarled, and spiny vine. He was trapped.

“Of course, then you turn back up, and you’re just like one of your clan’s cats. Neutering you in the traditional sense wouldn’t do either of us any good. It isn’t your sexual desires driving you but your clan’s inherent madness, and I can’t do anything about that. It’s rather unfortunate that you’re Konoha’s responsibility, which means you’re my responsibility. Aren’t I lucky that I can stop you from roaming and fighting with my brother’s handy little forbidden juinjutsu?”

 _No_.

No, Hashirama wouldn’t do that.

Would he?

Madara wanted to be sick. He swallowed thickly, around his dry throat and his foul-tasting mouth, and tried not to retch. His hair was already disgusting. “Why not just kill me?”

Hashirama didn’t reply immediately. The Uchiha glanced up at him, and then looked away just as fast to focus on the cold stone floor of the cave. The manic intensity in Hashirama’s gaze was deeply unsettling.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Madara?” the Senju asked. “You want to be put down like the rabid animal you are. Things would be so much easier for you. What is failure, if you aren’t alive to bear the brunt of the consequences of it? People can blame you and curse your name all they like once you’re in the grave and you no longer have to feel the weight of their scorn. Ah, but that isn’t what I want, and what happens to you next is my responsibility, not yours. You have proven yourself incapable of wielding the power and independence I have allowed you so far.”

Hashirama’s tone was one of condescending disappointment. Madara had used that exact manner of speaking before, usually when he was scolding young shinobi. The last person to speak to _him_ that way had been his father. Not even the Uchiha elders had dared.

It made him feel strangely small.

He hated it.

Bound, stripped of his Sharingan and his ability to use chakra, in more pain than was reasonable for his degree of injury, nauseous, exhausted in spite of the hours he’d spent slipping in and out of unconsciousness already, to have to sit there and take a scolding from Hashirama, who was an idiot and a backstabbing liar, was more than he could handle. Madara didn’t have the energy to scream, and couldn’t stomp out of the shallow cave explosively, or do anything else to alleviate the impotent rage coursing through his veins, the grief crushing his chest.

“You have the Uchiha already,” he said, tiredly. “They forsook me a long time ago. What can you possibly want from me, Hashirama?”

“I want you to come back to Konoha,” Hashirama replied without hesitation.

Madara took several seconds to rally his thoughts, silence the part of his brain that was just the sound of incoherent frustrated shrieking. “And then what? After I’ve been humiliated for my failure, what comes after? What is there for me in your village? What was there before you stole my ability to use chakra? What is there now that I’m useless?”

Hashirama got to his feet and wandered over at a measured pace, stepping in front of the low fire. It backlit him, casting his face in eerie darkness but for the faint glitter of his eyes. “You have never been useless, Madara,” he said in a low, sultry voice.

Madara resisted the urge to shrink away from him, even as his gorge rose. Surely Hashirama wasn’t implying…?

“Would you like me to show you?” the Senju asked, slipping his haori off his shoulders.

He was. Terror washed over Madara like a wave of frigid water, threatening to freeze him where he sat. It was only with a monumental effort that he jerked his limbs into motion and scrambled backwards to the best of his ability with his mobility limited by the shackles. He hadn’t had to fear being raped by an enemy since he was pre-pubescent, and even then he was more likely to be killed and have his eyes stolen.

The Uchiha never took honeypot missions. Their kekkei genkai was too valuable.

He had never trained for this.

After he’d developed the Mangekyou Sharingan, he’d never thought on the matter again. Not in regard to himself.

“Please,” he stammered, and wished he didn’t sound so feeble as he said it. He couldn’t breathe, each inhale a rasping gasp.

Hashirama paused as he stepped out of his hakama, tilting his head to the side. Madara could imagine his expression, the one he wore when he was confused by something but not upset. Childishly puzzled. “Please?” he parroted. “You want me to show you how you can be useful, then, Madara? Oh, I hadn’t thought you would be so agreeable to my proposition. Ah, this just makes everything better! You will definitely have a place in Konoha after all!”

Hashirama was deliberately misunderstanding, Madara thought a little wildly, pressing himself against the rocky wall of the cave, a sharp stone digging into his hip and another near his spine, stabbing pain flaring out over his back, across the seal array.

“Not this,” Madara said.

Hashirama pushed his underwear aside. In the low firelight, Madara could make out the outline of his cock, already engorged with blood, precum gleaming wetly as it leaked from the head. “I have the perfect position in mind for you, Madara,” he said, crouching and touching the shackle around Madara’s ankle with a single finger. The wood parted, retreating back into the earth.

Madara would have tried to run, if only he weren’t so dizzy and tired. Instead, he tucked his foot up under himself, curling into a smaller and smaller ball beneath his wild mane of hair.

“We will enter a shudou relationship. This is acceptable now, as we are no longer Clan Heads of the same station. Indeed, you are little more than an animal, in the eyes of the village. It won’t be as formal as it could, were we samurai. We are shinobi, after all,” Hashirama said, reaching out and touching the bindings on his wrists. The message he did not state outright was clear: there was no honour here, among murderers and thieves, and unlike a samurai wakashou, normally a youth but sometimes a man of lower class, Madara’s opinion on the matter would not be taken into account.

This would happen regardless of how he felt about it.

The shackles fell away, the vines trapping his fingers uncoiling – and if he’d had a kunai, Madara would’ve stabbed himself in the throat, right there and then. There would be no point attacking Hashirama, not without chakra to enhance his speed and strength, though perhaps he could’ve ended his own life during that moment of surprise were Hashirama to think he was going to try for an assassination rather than suicide.

Hashirama took him by the sleeves, and pulled his torn and dirty robe over his head. The night air was chill and biting against Madara’s overheated skin. Then, Hashirama reached for the waist of his trousers. Madara considered fighting. Biting, kicking, scratching. The fear crushing his chest compelled him to struggle, but that instinct was almost completely drowned by the hollow ache of grief – the knowledge that he had failed, that he had _nothing_ , that it didn’t matter if Hashirama did this to him.

At the end, when he had nothing left but a life he no longer wanted, he was a shinobi.

And shinobi _endured_.

Through everything, every hurt conceivable, a shinobi was supposed to endure.

 _He_ could endure this indignity, because he had to.

Madara swallowed a shuddering breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and did not resist as Hashirama tugged his trousers down by the waistband. He obligingly parted his legs when Hashirama nudged his knee. Opened his mouth when Hashirama pressed his fingers against his bottom lip. Sucked when his index and middle finger were slipped past his teeth – tried not to think about the fact that Hashirama must have been eating, before Madara awoke, and his hands tasted faintly sugary.

He couldn’t meet Hashirama’s hooded gaze, couldn’t bear to stare into the eyes of the man he had once regarded as a brother, but who he hadn’t really known at all, as Hashirama took his flaccid penis in his large warm hand and began to stroke it with a firm grip.

The Senju removed his fingers from Madara’s mouth and reached between his legs to run them up the cleft of his ass, probing.

Madara tensed as one found his asshole, circling the rim of muscle there a couple of times before pushing in.

It hurt, a dry burn, and Madara hissed through gritted teeth.

Hashirama made a thoughtful noise and withdrew his hand. “You need to relax more, Madara, or you won’t enjoy it.” He spat in his hand and slicked his cock with his own saliva, pressed Madara’s legs behind the knees, encouraging him forcefully to draw his thighs up to his own chest.

Madara screwed his eyes shut, biting his lip until he tasted blood to avoid crying out at the feeling of the blunt tip of Hashirama’s cock pushing into him. He felt as though he were being split in two.

“You’re so tight,” Hashirama breathed, pulling back only to thrust slowly back in. “I thought I told you to relax.”

“F-forgive me, Hokage-sama,” Madara gasped. “But I’ve never done this before.”

“Still so caustic, even like this,” Hashirama marvelled. “You never cease to amaze me, Madara.”

His hand was on Madara’s face, cupping his cheek. Soft puffs of warm, sweet-smelling breath across his lips. Madara didn’t open his eyes. He was thankful when instead of kissing him, Hashirama instead pressed his lips against his jaw. The gentle way Hashirama kissed and nibbled and licked across his jaw, over his cheekbone – it was too much. More of it, and he would break.

So he focused on the pain instead. On the pinch and burn of his cock as Hashirama stroked and tugged it without any sort of lubricant. On the agony of being forced into too dry, over and over, until he felt the stabbing pain of something tearing, the sting of a bleeding wound deep inside himself, and then a slickness produced by his own blood.

Hashirama moaned, as if this sordid affair were somehow pleasurable, and pressed himself closer to Madara, his head dropping down onto his chest, long silky brown hair tickling Madara’s sides as his thrusts picked up speed.

 _Please_ , Madara prayed silently, but to who or what he did not know. He might as well have been begging the world at large. _Let this end, soon_. Time seemed to lose meaning, seconds and minutes stretching out into one long moment of pain and touches so gentle they almost tickle, punctuated by soft grunts and murmurs of appreciation, and shadowed by a humiliation so deep Madara was sure it would stain his very soul, like blood on tatami.

An interminable amount of time later, the Hokage’s hips stuttered and he breathed a long, low sigh. Madara knew he was too raw for any sort of real sensation down there, but he imagined he could feel the hot spurt of cum anyway.

He shuddered in disgust, and battered Hashirama’s pawing hand away from his limp cock.

“But I need to pleasure you, too,” Hashirama objected.

“No, Hashirama. I’m – I’m just tired,” Madara said. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

It wasn’t okay. Nothing had been even marginally close to okay in years, and now his entire life was somehow orders of magnitude worse. Because Madara was a failure and an idiot who burned everything he touched.

He squirmed out from beneath Hashirama’s muscular bulk, and on legs as unsteady as a newborn foal’s he staggered across the stone ground, heading for the cave entrance. Hashirama was on his feet and blocking his path a moment later, expression dangerous.

“Where are you going, Madara?” he asked, voice suddenly as cold and hard as a frozen-over river.

Madara shoved at him weakly. “The river,” he said. “My hair is disgusting. I’m not going to sleep until I wash it.”

Hashirama relented, stepping aside and falling in beside him as he stumbled out of the cave, across the rocky riverbank, and down to the water’s edge. In spite of the bandages wrapping his arm from wrist to shoulder and part of his chest, the Senju looked like a spirit bathed in the moonlight, lithe and naked and elegantly graceful but capricious and predatory, as many youkai were wont to be. Neither of them acknowledged that they were within a hundred yards of the place where their disastrous battle had concluded.

Madara dropped to his knees, cupped his hands in the chilly water and drank handful after handful of it, relishing the way it soothed his burned and chapped lips, parched throat, dry and foul-tasting mouth. His belly cramped as it hit his stomach, but this pain, this pain was worth it.

Then he dunked his entire head in the rushing water and held it there, letting the river take away the sweat and the sick and the blood.

Last, he washed his body, taking particular care around his bruised and bleeding anus.

Warm fingers touched his shoulder. “Come. It’s too cold to linger out here.”

Hashirama took Madara’s hand, twining their fingers together, and led them back into the cave, to the pile of blankets next to the heat of the fire. He pushed Madara down, then lay beside him, apparently unconcerned by the naked blade within arm’s reach, curling himself around Madara in a tangle of warm limbs. He fell asleep almost immediately, while Madara lay awake, exhausted in mind and body, but unable to rest, gazing at the glitter of steel in firelight.

It would be so easy to take that blade, and—

 _No_.

He closed his eyes, lifted his arm to cover them and remove them temptation.

It was too late.

There was nothing he could do, not anymore.

Madara did the one thing still available to him. Something he hadn’t done in years. Not even when Izuna died. He’d wanted to, but he’d been too numb with grief. Now, though, with the loss of everything, his clan having turned their backs on him, the dream he once shared with Hashirama twisted into a nightmare, the last sliver of hope for a better world he’d been holding onto, his autonomy stripped away with his chakra, his rage twisted to despair, and even death denied him, Uchiha Madara curling in on himself and gave in to the grief, the grief that had drowned the hate he’d been clinging to for survival for so long.

Tears welled up in his tear ducts. He attempted to blink them back, only to have them leak across his nose and down the side of his cheek. He bit his lip, trying to stop the way it turned downwards against his will, and fought to breathe without a hitch. He tried to summon his rage to chase this weakness away, and failed, a miserable sob working its way up his throat.

Hashirama stirred, tightened the grip of the arm he had curled around Madara’s torso. “Madara…” he whined unhappily.

Madara didn’t hear him over the quiet keening he was trying to swallow because this was the end of his life, and Hashirama didn’t even have the kindness in the heart to kill him out of mercy.

It was hours later, as the first rays of sunlight streamed through the entrance of the doton cave while Madara was choking on his own breaths that he slipped back into unconsciousness. Not real sleep, but neither a fevered delirium.

Five days later, just hours before Tobirama would have set out to come and drag Hashirama back to Konoha – by his hair, if need be – the Hokage returned by himself, grinning and cheerful, accompanied by his dour best friend. If anyone noticed the way Madara lagged behind him, his shoulders hunched a little higher than usual, hair covering more of his face, they didn’t say anything. In fact, for all that the people joyously greeted their leader, they spared him only the odd disgusted glance, their faces hard and angry, as if they were looking at something revolting they had stepped in.

That was fine, but never in his life had Madara been _glad_ to see Senju Tobirama storming towards him wearing an expression of controlled fury.

Never in his life would he have felt relief at the bruising grip on his forearm, dragging him away from the crowds and along to the Hokage Tower until he was herded into an office and told to sit and be silent until they had a plan to deal with him. Never would he have considered his brother’s murderer, the very person who had come up with the accursed seal on his back, _safe_. But Tobirama, for all his prejudice, for all he hated the Uchiha and thought Madara violently irrational, was not a cruel man. Nor was he unpredictable.

So if Madara sat still and quiet, then Tobirama would do little more than remain peripherally aware of him while he focused on his work. He might go so far as to shoot a crimson glare across the room every now and again as if he wondered what Madara was plotting – but he wouldn’t hurt him without provocation.

And that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had more to write in this AU after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say.


End file.
